


038 - Learning Guitar

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-12 05:27:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17461463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: Filling the prompt “you should write ab van (or any member) teaching you to play their instrument !!”





	038 - Learning Guitar

Van was lying almost completely flat on his back, playing guitar. His head was angled up so he could see and the guitar sat on his chest. He was sitting on the balcony strumming away, watching you as you cooked in the kitchen. When everything was simmering and bubbling and the kitchen was filled with the scent of cinnamon and paprika, you went and sat in the chair opposite him.

"Smells good," he said, his hair falling across one eye.

"You could learn to cook, you know," you told him. You loved cooking, but doing it all day at the restaurant, then coming home and having to do it more, sometimes it got tiring. Van would always help. He'd cut the carrots but they'd not be uniform. He'd grate the cheese but he'd eat handfuls, throwing the ratios off. It was easier to kick him out of the kitchen.

"And you could learn guitar," he replied. You sighed. You'd had the conversation before.

"Guitar takes some degree of natural talent, Van. Anyone can learn to cook,"

"Babe, I have no natural talent. I couldn't play at all when I started. I just kept going. Grafting. And, if you think making Yorkshire puddings perfect every fuckin' time isn't magic you were born with… Nobody can just learn that,"

"They weren't always perfect,"

"Neither was I at guitar."

Both of your arguments were flawed, and your logic would apply to the other but not yourselves. Van thought you were born good at cooking, and that was amazing and special, but he learned guitar through hard work and you could too. You thought Van was born good at guitar, and that was amazing and special, but you learned to cook through hard work and he could too. You were frustrated that he didn't see your hard work, and he felt the same when you couldn't see his. Neither of you purposefully ignored the hard work; Van believed you to be a gift to humankind and naturally you saw him the same. Arguments - flawed. Logic - non-existent.

After dinner you watched the gleam of the day disappear behind the city skyline. The balcony light had started to attract bugs, so you went inside. You followed Van into his makeshift studio. He played you some bits and pieces that he thought were maybe good enough for the new album. You agreed they were, and he listened to your feedback. He stood up and handed you the guitar, saying "hold this for a sec." You did, then waited for him to stop looking through a shelf of records. His back was to you, so you couldn't see what he was doing. "Okay, now put your index finger on the top string, in the first square. It's called a fret, and-"

"Van!" you stood up and yelled. "You can't trick me into playing guitar!"

He laughed and turned around, walking towards you. "Look, you're holding it, and that's progress." You put it down. He looked disappointed. "Babe. Why won't you even try?"

"Because!"

"Because? Because why?" You frowned and closed the gap between you. He was in a hoodie and was warm and comfy. You rested your head on his shoulder and hugged him tight. He would never wear a hoodie outside the house, so it was always a beautifully private experience. The Van that only you knew. He wrapped his arms around you and kissed the top of your head.

"I won't be good at it,"

"Nobody is good at it when they start,"

"I know, but I'll be bad. Really bad."

He understood then. You were a perfectionist, and you had clawed your way into the restaurant business. You had to prove yourself night after night before anyone would give you a shot, and the idea of reliving that stress, and the potential for failure… it was essentially your worst nightmare. He let you go and walked you backwards to the couch. Your legs bumped up against it, and you fell onto it. He knelt in front of you on the floor and put the guitar back in your lap.

"Y/N. I've got you. I promise it will be fun, and I promise I'll cook anything you want me to for a whole month. Please? Just try." He spoke softly and it was reassuring. You chewed your bottom lip and looked at him with his hopeful face and his God-given eyelashes. You nodded, and you could feel your mood shift. You were vulnerable and he was in control.

First he taught you which string was which. "E. A. D. G. B. E." He pointed as he went along. "You can remember that by saying, eat a damn good breakfast everyday."

"Grammatically that sentence requires 'every day' to be two words, not one though," you told him. He looked at you. "Okay. Not relevant. E. A. D. G. B. E. Got it," you said, making each string sound out as you named them. He leant in and kissed you on the cheek.

"Good! Alright, so this is the fretboard, and these are the frets. There's nineteen on this guitar. If you hold the string just before the little bit of metal, each fret makes a different note," he paused to check to see if you were following. You nodded. "If you hold down the string in two or more places, that's a chord. Songs are just chords and notes."

"Do you and Bondy both play both?" you asked. He smiled, happy that you were asking a question.

"Yeah. I'm rhythm guitar, so I play mostly the backing chords. He is lead, so he is more the melody," he replied.

"But you don't always do this bit," you said pointing to the fretboard. "You just sometimes strum randomly." Van laughed.

"That's because I'm a lazy guitarist and get distracted with singing, or dancin', or whatever."

He taught you the most simple of power chords and started you off with the first few songs anyone learns on guitar. Smoke on the Water, Seven Nation Army, Brain Stew… Super easy. You picked bits of each up quickly and wriggled happily in your seat.

"Alright, what's a song with a riff you really like?" he asked. You thought for a minute, then it popped into your head. You told him, and he played the song through his phone. He listened to the intro a few times, then showed you how to play it. It was easier for you because there were no chords. You just had to be able to move at the right tempo. When you got it, and you could do it on a loop, Van timed himself and started to sing lyrics.

"How long, how long will I slide? Separate my side, I don't… I don't believe it's bad to slit my throat. It's all I ever…"

You both finished at the right time and you looked at up him beaming. He held your face in his head and kissed you hard over the guitar.

"It's almost like I was right about this?" he said sarcastically.

"Maybe it means I'm right about the cooking," you theorised.

"Maybe," he agreed and stood up. "Come on. That's lesson one for today. Show me how to make jelly or somethin',"

"Jelly? You don't know how to make jelly?" He shrugged and walked out the room. You carefully placed the guitar down, now feeling a sense of ownership over it. You closed the door to the studio, and as you followed Van down the hall to the kitchen you knew you understood him a little bit better. He was right. He wasn't born knowing how to play. He learnt. He taught himself and practised every day and got better and better until people were filling stadiums to watch him play. All he wanted to do was show you that, and it took you that long to let him. As you rounded the corner you watched Van pull a dessert book off the shelf.

"I remember I saw somethin' in here once I thought looked good," and he started to flick through the pages. You felt the pain of your ribs cracking to allow your heart more room to grow. You breathed out harder and he glanced up at you, then back down at the book. "Got it!"


End file.
